Botulism, a septicity of the skullcap, the machine that orders and correlates the things that are not things, the thingly things. Contemplate, a misspelling of the first order: logical Neapolitanism, a quid of plug between amber and nib dent. Exenterate transit, an evacuation of the inner alloy, crumb bits and bread heals, bicuspid of soda. I have, have I, arrived home. Having arrived, I have embarked home. I have embarked, having arrived home after arriving from where, one conjures, but home nonetheless. I am ill suited to sleep. Treacle sweet sucrose sleep. Sleep at right angles sleep. Sleeping into sleep, sleep. Counting sheep sleepless sleep, sleep. Devil may careless sleep sleeping in and out of sleepless, sleep. I am tired of sleep. I am sheepishly sleepless, sleepless like a sheep, this sleepless sheep’s sleep. Sleep is wolves’ clothing sleep, yet sleepier still.This afternoon I prudently grafted a picture of James A, Joyce from John McCourt’s aptly titled coffee-table book, James Joyce, to a $0.99 pretend mahogany frame purchased at the local thrift store. It sits atop a pyre of like-minded books next to a framed picture of Samuel Beckett, Joyce’s onetime annalist, not to be confused with analyst, or Dr. Wilfred Bion, to whom Beckett reposed back-head first to when he was a young aspiring playwright. The evidence that Joyce was unfamiliar with or had not read Freud is tenuous at best, although a prudent reading of Ulysses clearly contradicts this pedagogical bromide. The river runs, so to speak, circuitously and with little regard for proper grammar, spelling, syntax or punctuation. The funnel in the anterior abacus of my head, where information, datum, the odd logarithm and general nonsense gains access to my thinking-machine, seems to be fair to middling-full with dross, applesauce and ill manners. Perhaps a slight repose is in order, if not that, then at least a conk on the head to ease the ascension to unconsciousness. We of the Ego-less Id deserve at least such. Coprophaglia, as is evidenced from my own inability to master proper grammar, syntax, spelling and punctuation. Fuck but I’m tired, fucking depleted I’d say. Now that I am awake, I am unconscious. Wakefulness and insentience are, I fear, samesuch. Paunch, abscond, reformulate the integer, cake, meringue, scourge of lemon, lime sherbet, anise, melancholy, babe in the lumber, allocate funds to war brides, steal allocations from war brides, reallocate funds to war, bridled with enthusiasm, reuse toiletries, defuse moils, refuse the integer, pie and pecan, sea captain with eczema, fallopian agape, Plato’s cave, Socrates attends a rave, wave goodbye to the integer, reallocate the integer to Plato, Socrates’ war bride windowed, windowpane LSD, RSVP as soon as possible, I am in the hospital with rickets, babe in the thickets, eat lemon sherbet in Socrates’ cave, be enthusiastic about melancholy, hello jolly, Sir Winston Raleigh is a fat bastard, eczema is troublesome, itchy and persnickety, I am going to bed, with a scourge in me head. awakened from troubled dreams, I have yet to awaken, I will never awake. These ferments that neuropathology has gleaned from the cuckold of my hypothalamus are a joke, trickery and shamanism. I have no pep me ups or leavening yeast, all my thoughts are flat bread, pumpernickel, dark rye, untransubstantiated Benison loaf. I am twice removed from the once removed, indifferent to my own indifference, disinterested from my own disinterest, stale bread, unseasoned barm. I have thoughtless thoughts, frivolous dispatches lacking in mental content, a cuckoldry of intention and orderliness. If I were a Joycean character I would be Paddy Dignam, dead and rotting in some peat bog limed over to prevent an offal stench that no lemony scented wash up could ever possibly put right. Fucking grave worms and taproots fiddle flummoxing with my toe ends. Fucking horrid indeed
